Where the Mourning Dove Calls

I was greeted by the call of a mourning dove as I stepped outside this morning. Most mornings, I grab a cup of coffee and do a couple laps around my property to get in some steps and clear my head. And most mornings, I hear that call. I actually remember the first time hearing it, or perhaps remembering to hear it. I was a little boy and had just moved onto my grandmother's farm on the outskirts of Osgood, Indiana. My grandpa was up and out working in the farmyard, often before I had even woken up. But as soon as I did wake up, I would eat breakfast, make a cup of this powdered international flavored coffee (remember that stuff) that they had, and go sit on the small porch and hear the mourning dove's sad song.

A couple years ago, I spent two weeks in Australia. I had been dreaming about making such a trip since my early twenties. In fact, Emily and I had seriously considered a move to Australia at one point in our early years of marriage. I thought it'd be a good place to do ministry and then set up a base to move the gospel into Asia. I had been deeply inspired by James Hudson Taylor and studied Mandarin in college. The Holy Spirit moved my heart from China back to the Midwest. And yet, I still had an interest in Australia. But I wasn't actually looking forward to this trip.

That trip landed smack dab in the middle of one of the most difficult periods in my life. I had just lost my mom in a tragic way. I was in the process of losing my denomination. And this would begin a long season of very difficult church discipline cases. But I did end up going because my mom knew that I loved Australia, but also hated leaving this country. And one of the first things she said when she regained her ability to talk was that I had to promise her I would go to Australia. And I did. It ended up being a wonderful trip, and I'm really looking forward to getting back there sometime relatively soon.

Two things happened the first morning I was in Australia. First, my wife informed me, despite us being done having children, that she was pregnant with Fox. I'll have to ask her, but I think she also didn't tell me because she knew I would use it as an excuse not to go to Australia. She probably would have been right. Second, I went and got a coffee. They didn't have drip or house coffee. You had to get a flat white. Australians are very proud of their coffees, and they are pretty good.

But as I got the coffee, I sat in a beautiful town that almost looked like an American city. It was different in 10,000 tiny little ways. Almost like an alternative reality. And the thing that stood out to me most was the sounds the birds made. They didn't sound like our birds. They weren't cheeps and coos. They were more like squawks. And some made sounds that weren't far off the noises the dinosaurs made in Jurassic Park. I do not remember hearing any mourning doves. But the whole time I was in Australia, I was fascinated by the intense difference in bird songs. And though it was a country that in many ways was a cousin country and spoke our language, it was still a foreign country. And it was the birds who reminded me that this wasn't my home. My home was 14 hours away by plane, where the mourning doves start your day.

Painting: Richard Clifton